by Peter Mayle
He stopped at the intersection below Ménerbes, where the D-3 runs up the valley towards Bonnieux. Above the mutter of the idling engine, close enough to make the hairs rise on the nape of his neck, he heard a sound, half-sigh, half-groan. He sat rigid, his hands suddenly sweaty on the wheel. It was one of them, going to jump him and take the money. His eyes flicked up to the mirror. Nobody. Nothing. But he could feel a presence behind him; he could hear breathing.
He gave in and spoke. “Who’s that?”
There was a loud, prolonged yawn. Very slowly, Simon turned his head and saw the squat, recumbent form on the backseat, all four legs in the air, tail moving lazily at the sound of a familiar voice. Mrs. Gibbons was waking up.
Simon felt relief wash through his body. Bloody dog. He remembered now that she often took a nap in the back of the car until it was time to go home with Ernest.
Mrs. Gibbons poked her head between the front seats and sniffed the sack of money. Simon put it on the floor, and she settled herself on the passenger seat, resting her heavy head on Simon’s thigh, a comforting, warm weight. He fondled one of her ragged ears and drove on.
He had the road to himself, the farms on either side shuttered and dark, the car’s headlights forming a long, empty tunnel in front of him. It was just after the Lacoste turning that a gleam in the mirror caught his eye, a gleam that kept its distance as the road twisted through orchards of cherry trees, their leaves drooping in disconsolate swags after another arid day. He stopped at the foot of the hill below Bonnieux. The car behind him stopped. He looked down at Mrs. Gibbons. “The bastard’s following us,” he said. The dog sat up and cocked her head, her tail thumping softly against the upholstery.
They drove through Bonnieux, past sleeping houses and startled cats, and followed the sign to the Forêt des Cèdres. Blackness on each side, blackness behind. Either he’d turned off his lights or he’d gone, now that he was sure Simon was alone.
The barrier blocking off the forest road, a straight, authoritative shape among the wizened scrub oaks and the clutter of rocks, appeared in the headlights. Simon turned them off and killed the engine and felt the gallop of his heartbeat. Mrs. Gibbons whined with excitement at the possibility of a walk. He rubbed her head. “You stay here and look after the car.” She whined again and scratched at the door. Simon sighed. “Well, for Christ’s sake don’t bite anybody.” He let her out, picked up the sack and the flashlight, and stood for a moment by the car.
The silence was immense, broken only by the soft tick of the cooling engine and the sound of a miniature waterfall as Mrs. Gibbons emptied her bladder. Moon-shadows turned the shapes of bushes into crouching men. Simon switched on the flashlight, ducked under the barrier, licked his lips, and tried unsuccessfully to whistle for the dog. The inside of his mouth felt as though it had been dry-cleaned.
The rope soles of his espadrilles made less noise than the leathery scuff of the dog’s paws beside him. The road stretched straight ahead, running from east to west. On either side, towering dark cascades of cedar trees shut out the moon, and Simon saw that the beam of the flashlight was shaking. Shit. This was bloody lunacy. Nobody for miles, except—somewhere ahead of him, or behind him, or even watching him now from the deep, still gloom of the forest—the kidnappers. They could kill him and bury him up here. Maybe they’d already dug the hole. He shivered in the warm night air and walked a little faster.
It was almost half an hour before he saw the wooden sign at the side of the road, faded letters in the light: Forêt Dominiale de Ménerbes. Mrs. Gibbons suddenly stopped, her great snout twitching, her tail stiff and horizontal, a long, gurgling growl coming from the depths of her throat. God, thought Simon, that’s all I need, the bloody dog getting attached to a kidnapper’s leg. He dropped the sack, bent down, and hooked his fingers through Mrs. Gibbons’s collar. His other hand held the wavering flashlight. He needed a third hand for the sack. Shit. Could he leave it in the middle of the road? They must be there, watching him, probably with knives and shotguns and deeply suspicious natures. Bloody dog.
The forest remained silent except for the faint breath of wind through the trees and the intermittent rumblings coming from Mrs. Gibbons. Simon put the end of the flashlight between his teeth, took hold of the sack, tightened his grip on the dog’s collar, and moved in a crabwise, shuffling crouch across the road. This is ridiculous, he thought. I am a wealthy and successful man. What in God’s name am I doing here? With a heave of his arm, he tossed the sack onto the grass at the foot of the sign. Mrs. Gibbons strained against her collar. Simon cursed her through a mouthful of flashlight, picked up thirty kilos of bunched, aggressive muscle, and started to carry the dog back the way he had come.
Jojo and Bachir watched as the light from the flashlight became dim and finally disappeared. They came out of the trees.
“I hate that dog,” Bachir said. “It was always looking at me on the chantier. I don’t think it likes Arabs. I tell you, I was shit scared he’d let it go.”
Jojo clapped him on the back. “Forget it.” He switched on his flashlight and opened the sack. “Look at that. Ten million balles. Let’s go and be rich.” He picked up the sack. Martinique, here I come, he thought. The two men started down the overgrown track that would lead them to their rendezvous with the General by the quarry near Ménerbes.
Simon’s pulse had calmed down to little more than twice its normal rate. He put the dog down and stretched his aching arms. Although he hated to admit it, Ziegler had been right; all the kidnappers were interested in was the money. And now, thank God, it was over. He quickened his pace and began to feel optimistic. Boone would be back tomorrow, the detectives would be gone tomorrow, and he and Nicole—
Mrs. Gibbons growled again, and Simon stopped dead. He heard movement, fast and clumsy, in the bushes. He swung the flashlight towards the sound, and his heart had another attack of hysterics as the beam picked up a massive head and a black, whiskery face.
Mrs. Gibbons barked. The wild boar, head lowered, looked at them for a few long seconds and then lumbered back into the night, its tail flicking angrily from side to side. Simon felt limp, as if his bones had collapsed. His hands were still trembling when he reached the car, and he had to use both of them to fumble the key into the ignition.
The reception committee waiting for him at the hotel had increased by three. Hampton Parker, his face lined and sombre, was standing at the entrance, flanked by two large, watchful men. Nicole, Françoise, and Ernest were grouped round the reception desk. The detectives had abandoned the office to pace up and down the lobby. As Simon pulled up, they swarmed round the car and peppered him with questions. He was giddy with nervous exhaustion and anticlimax, and desperate for a drink. Mrs. Gibbons clambered over to the backseat and went to sleep.
The General heard them coming, hurried footsteps skidding on the loose stones of the track. He stamped on his cigarette and peered at his watch. Clockwork. The whole thing had gone like clockwork. The boy had eaten everything and had passed out within twenty minutes from the double dose of Binoctal that they’d ground up in his pizza. By the time he woke, they’d be well on their way to Barcelona, rich men. He wondered how Enrico was getting on with the fiscs. No beauty sleep for him tonight.
Jojo and Bachir came out of the darkness, and the General could almost feel them grinning.
“Here,” said Jojo. “Catch.”
Ten million francs hit him in the chest, and he hugged the sack like a baby. They got into the van and went to pick up the others from the barn.
The hotel lobby was beginning to look like the waiting room at Avignon station—figures slumped on chairs, empty coffee cups and glasses, full ashtrays. Stubble and fatigue darkened the men’s faces. Nothing was happening, but nobody wanted to miss it.
When the bell went off, it was as if they’d all received a simultaneous electric shock. Simon ran to pick up the phone.
“So what’s new?”
Simon shook his head at the faces turned towa
rds him. It was only Ziegler.
“I delivered the money. Now we’re waiting. There’s nothing we can do.”
“Parker there?”
“Yes, he’s here. Do you want to talk to him.”
Ziegler deliberated. “Maybe it’s not the moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, two million bucks is two million bucks, buddy. I’m trying to run a business here.”
Simon dropped his voice. “Bob, will you do me a favour?”
“Depends.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Simon put down the phone and crossed the lobby to where Hampton Parker was sitting, his head between his hands. “That was Bob Ziegler. He … well, he just wanted to know if Boone had got back.” Parker nodded. He looked numb. “Do you want to try to get some sleep?”
The Texan loosened his tie and undid the collar of his shirt. Simon noticed the cords of tension in his neck. “Guess I’ll sit it out,” he said. “Bourbon would help, if you have some.”
They went down to the bar. Simon took a bottle and two glasses out onto the terrace and they sat in silence, drinking and watching the long, dark hump of the Lubéron gradually become more defined as night started to give way to dawn. Simon thought of a dozen unpleasant things he’d like to do to Ziegler. “Two million bucks is two million bucks, buddy.” What a little bastard.
The long orange and brown coach, its diesel engine pumping fumes into the early morning air, was parked by the side of the Place de la Bouquerie in Apt. Gonzalez Voyages, Apt/Barcelone, Tout Confort/W.C. was ready to take on passengers. They stood in small groups in the sun, chattering and laughing, good-humored at the thought of a holiday in Spain and all those cheap pesetas.
The General had told them not to wait all together in one big group and not to sit together in the coach. He and Jojo stood off to one side as the others filed on board, each with a fully packed shoulder bag, indistinguishable from the rest of the travellers in their nondescript blue denim. Only Jojo had dressed for the part, in a straw hat and a new T-shirt with “Vivent les Vacances!” printed on the front. He’d been rather pleased with that—a little touch, the kind of thing the General would appreciate.
He felt the strap of his bag, pleasantly heavy on his shoulder. Solid money. They were all, in French francs at least, millionaires. He looked around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard.
“What made you choose a coach?”
The General smiled and stroked his moustache. “What would you be looking for if you were a flic? A fast car, probably stolen, or a group of men buying last-minute tickets at the airport, something like that, non? Are they going to be looking for a clapped-out bus full of tourists? No baggage checks, either. And they probably won’t even bother with the passports at the frontier.” The General tapped Jojo on the chest. “Sometimes a slow getaway is best.”
Jojo adjusted his straw hat and nodded. “C’est pas con.”
They climbed into the coach and made their way down the aisle, not looking at the others, and settled themselves on worn plastic seats. They’d be in Barcelona this afternoon, then a train to Madrid. And from Madrid airport a man could go anywhere. The General felt tired. He closed his eyes and thought of Mathilde. He’d give her a call from Madrid. She was a good old girl. It would be nice to see her with some money.
With a sigh from the hydraulic doors, the coach moved away from the curb. The driver waved his thanks to the gendarme who had stopped the traffic to let him pull out.
Boone woke up and wished he hadn’t. He had a mouthful of evil-tasting fur and a head as tender as a peeled egg, like the time he’d gone to Florida on spring break and had all those upside-down Margaritas. He didn’t remember having anything to drink, either. Just that pizza, and then a nosedive. He felt the ground biting into his body, arched his back, and opened one eye. Who was going to be on baby-sitting duty today? he wondered. He turned his head cautiously and opened the other eye.
There was the trestle table and some old crates. There, at the far end of the barn, was the closed door with daylight leaking through the cracks. He sat up and looked around. The place had been cleaned out—no bikes, no empty bottles, no trace that they’d ever been there except a scattering of cigarette butts in the earth. And no baby-sitters.
He got to his feet and walked stiffly to the door, gave it a tentative push, watched it swing open, and stood on the threshold, flinching as the glare penetrated his eyeballs and throbbed against the top of his skull. He stepped out of the barn. The clearing around it was empty, the grass flattened where cars had been parked. The track ahead was deserted. Nobody shouted at him as he went towards the road. He stood on the hot tarmac for a few moments, wondering where he was, and went off to look for a signpost.
Madame Arnaud, driving briskly along to her weekly rendezvous at the Sisters of Mercy Mission, where charitable ladies gathered to sip coffee and discuss good works, slowed down at the sight of the grimy figure waving at her in the middle of the road. She shook her head in disapproval. It was really scandalous, she thought—marginaux like him were everywhere these days, filthy, unshaven animals hoping to take advantage of respectable citizens like herself. He was quite young, too, she noticed, as she swerved to avoid him and accelerated hard. Scandalous.
24
Ernest and Françoise were distributing coffee and croissants to the creased and red-eyed inhabitants of the lobby. A group of guests, dressed for another day of blazing heat, looked with curiosity at Parker’s bodyguards and the detectives, wondering why the hotel was suddenly full of men in city clothes.
With heads bent over their coffee, none of them noticed the figure that plodded past the window and stopped at the entrance.
“Yo, Ernie. Got a beer?”
Ernest spun round at the sound of Boone’s voice, rushed across the lobby, and hugged the grinning, malodorous young man, patting him as if to make sure he was all there. Françoise burst into tears, the bodyguards and detectives hastily put down their cups, and Nicole ran out to fetch Simon and Hampton Parker. Mrs. Gibbons emerged from the office, examined one of Boone’s bare and dirty legs, and rotated a welcoming tail.
“Well!” Ernest said. “What a sight you are, young Boone! I think a shower and something to eat—”
The senior detective raised his hand in an official gesture, made somewhat less official by the half-eaten croissant he was holding. “We have many questions to ask the young man.”
Ernest frowned at him. “Yes, dear, I’m sure you have, but give the poor boy a chance. A shower first, and clues afterwards.”
The senior detective snapped his fingers at his partner. “Call Avignon. Tell them we have him. They can get going.”
Hampton Parker ran up the stairs, followed by Nicole and Simon, and stood with his hands on Boone’s shoulders, his face crinkled in a vast smile. “Good to see you, boy.” He swallowed hard. “Had us a little worried there for a while. You okay?”
Boone grinned and nodded. “Good as new.”
“Now then, Mr. P.,” Ernest said, “why don’t we get Boone tidied up and put some food inside him?”
“Sure.” Parker clapped his son on the back and turned to Simon. “Do you know, I never told the boy’s mother. I was worrying enough for two. Guess I’ll call her now, if you don’t mind. Oh, and it might be an idea if I called Bob Ziegler. He was kind of concerned last night.”
Simon looked at his watch. Four a.m. in New York. He smiled. “No,” he said. “Allow me.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of weariness as Simon interpreted between Boone and the detectives, who seemed to think that if they asked the same questions often enough, Boone would finally produce the kidnappers’ names and addresses. The reporters from Le Provençal reappeared, convinced that they had a national scoop, and took photographs of anyone willing to stand still. Two puzzled American guests and the village postman posed obligingly for them in the lobby. Ziegler, whom Simon had found to be irritatingly wide awake, wanted to issu
e a press release describing his vital role in securing the safe return of the kidnap victim. Ernest insisted on arranging a celebration dinner. Uncle William, never one to miss the chance of ingratiating himself with a billionaire, volunteered to decorate the dinner menus. Simon craved sleep, and when Nicole came to rescue him from the detectives and take him home, he barely managed to crawl up the stairs before dropping, fully dressed, on the bed.
Six hours, a shower, and a shave later, he felt surprisingly well, even exhilarated, as if a burden had been removed from him while he slept. He towelled his hair dry and watched Nicole as she put on a short black dress that he’d never seen before. He kissed the brown skin of her back as he fastened the zip.
“Does this mean I have to wear a tie?”
Nicole dabbed scent on her neck and the inside of her wrists. “Ernest would like us to look chic. He’s such a sweet man. He wants to give Boone a special evening.”
“I’ll wear a jacket. But no tie, and definitely no socks.”
“Slob.”
Simon grumbled without much conviction as Nicole chose a shirt and a lightweight cotton suit for him to wear, and dusted off a pair of shoes he’d last worn in London.
She stood back to look at him as he was putting on his jacket, her head tilted to one side, blond hair falling away from her face, her bare, tanned legs and arms glowing against the dull silk of her dress. Simon had never seen a better-looking woman. I might be a slob, he thought, but at least I’m a lucky slob.
He smiled at her. “You’ll do,” he said. Arm in arm, they walked down to the hotel, talking quietly about tomorrow.
Madame Bonetto, watching them from the café window, called out to her husband. “He’s wearing a suit, the Englishman.” Bonetto grunted and looked down with satisfaction at his faded blue shorts. “Bieng,” he said. “I like to see a well-turned-out man.”